


the shameful yard

by Crystalwren



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Community: sammessiah, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-13
Updated: 2013-05-13
Packaged: 2017-12-11 18:20:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/801723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crystalwren/pseuds/Crystalwren
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam finds a book, and it's all about his favourite subject: himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the shameful yard

**Author's Note:**

  * For [quickreaver](https://archiveofourown.org/users/quickreaver/gifts).



> Written for the sammessiah antichristmas exchange. Merry antichristmas, quickreaver!

**  the shameful yard **

 

_Somewhere there are gardens where peacocks sing like nightingales, somewhere there are caravans of separated lovers travelling to meet each other; there are ruby fires on distant mountains, and blue comets that come in spring like sapphires in the black sky. If this is not so, meet me in the shameful yard, and we will plant a gallows tree, and swing like sad pendulums, never once touching._

 

-       ‘The Etched City’ K. J. Bishop.

 

 

 

 

Sam finds the book in a heavily fortified storage room, buried under a pile of desiccated Victorian penny dreadfuls. It is small and the pages are thick, the leather cover suspiciously unlike cow or sheep skin. In exquisite Gothic copperplate handwriting, the title proclaims: ‘The Book of Samuel: New Testament.’

 

Fascinated, Sam plonks his rear down on the floor, stirring up a cloud of dust. There is no ‘Book of Samuel’ in the New Testament, although there are two in the Old. And several pages in it becomes obvious that this isn’t the Bible as most know it. This is its profane equivalent, the Bible of Hell. Well, a small section of it, anyway. He’s heard sections of it, snippets and fragments, spat out by begging or raging demons, but this is the closest he’s ever come to the real thing.

 

_Deep within the caves of Hell dwells our Lord, the Morning Star, the Brightest Star of the Sky. And he shall instruct his most favoured son, Azazel, to go forth into the world above. He shall seek the most favoured of children and give them a gift of blood, and let them grow powerful and talented. And the most favoured of all children shall be given up unto our Lord, the Morning Star, The Brightest Star in the Sky, and our Lord shall see that this child is without imperfection. The name of this most favoured and perfect of children shall be Samuel._

 

Sam flushes and slams shut the book. He breathes hard through his nose as his head swims. This book cannot be about him, surely. Slowly, carefully, he opens the book again.

 

_And Samuel shall be King of Hell, and then of Earth, and he shall remake the world in his own image._

 

 _A king,_ Sam thinks, _a king of Hell and then of Earth? Me, a King?_ He knows that he should stop reading at this point. Should, but doesn’t.

 

**

 

“Come on,” Dean curses, slapping the top of their new second hand television. The picture rolls, then the speakers whine. There’s a tangle of leads and wires leading from it. He’s rigged up a hideously complicated series of antenna and ariels to try and get a signal.

 

“You know,” Sam says idly, “Maybe we should just get a DVD player.”

 

“Oh, you son of a bitch,” growls Dean. Sam huffs and raises his eyebrows. “Not you,” Dean snaps. “I was talking to this thing.”

 

Sam opts for a diplomatic silence as Dean fights technology. Finally he says, “DVD player?”

 

“Look, Sam, do you want to watch the game or not?”

 

“Okay, I’ll shut up now.”

“Good. Yes!” The picture rolls again and then settles. It’s fuzzy with static, but clear enough to see a ball as it arcs out of bounds. Dean drops into his own chair with that goofy grin of his. Sam hands him a beer and they settle in.

 

Half way through the match, Sam’s attention starts to wander. He finds himself thinking about the Demon Bible, the ultimate personalised book. Absently, he slips his hand into his pocket and wraps his fingers around the little book. He’s been carrying it around since the day he found it. He’s read it over and over again, memorised it, but he just cannot bear to be parted from it.

 

He tries not to think about why it means so much to him.

 

“Uh, Sam?” Dean says. Sam looks up to see Dean staring at him with the oddest expression. He follows Dean’s line of sight, Sam’s hand in his pocket. It takes a second to figure out what Dean’s disturbed about. Then it clicks: the way Sam’s hand is positioned, the shape of it in his jeans, it looks very like he’s jerking off. He flushes bright red and pulls his hand out, and the book with it.

 

“So...” Dean trails off, takes a swig of beer.

 

Sam hunts around for something to say, but the only thing that comes to mind is ‘awkward’. Desperately he shoves the book at Dean. “I found this in one of the storerooms,” he blurts, “I’ve been reading it. It’s interesting.”

 

Dean eyes him doubtfully but takes the book, holding it gingerly by the corner. “What’s it about?”

 

“I don’t know. I keep trying to figure that out.”

 

“Okay.” Delicately, with just the ends of his fingertips, as though he is touching something distasteful, Dean opens the book.

 

“Dude,” Sam says in exasperation, “It was just in my pocket. “That’s all.”

 

Dean grins at him and adjusts his grip to something a bit more practical. He studies it, flipping through the pages, scowling ferociously. “This thing,” he says after a while, “Is giving me a headache.” He hands it back. “I don’t know what language this is in, but it makes me feel like someone’s trying to suck my eyeballs out of their sockets with a vacuum cleaner.” Suspicion narrows his eyes. “I take it that you can?”

 

“Some,” Sam hedges.

 

“What’s it about?”

 

“It’s...it’s a prophecy,” Sam says, “From Hell.”

 

Dean turns back to watch the game. A barely perceptible shudder makes his shoulders twitch. “Let me know if there’s anything about Crowley in there,” he takes a larger gulp of beer.

 

 _Wording,_ thinks Sam, _I said ‘prophecy’ instead of ‘religion’ or ‘Bible’. Prophecy, meaning that it’s something that’ll happen one day. Why did I say that?_

 

Restlessly he leafs through the pages. _And Samuel shall drink the blood of the Loyal Whore, and know his own power._

 

Sam’s feet strike the ground with rather more force than necessary. “I’m getting a headache. Think I’ll turn in.”

 

Dean grunts, but doesn’t turn around, and doesn’t say goodnight either.

 

**

 

Blood. And loyalty. And whore. That has to be Ruby. Ah yes, Ruby.

 

Sam rolls over in bed.

 

He remembers: the skinny, pointed, blonde she was first, and then the softer, rounder brunette that came later. In retrospect, the second body was carefully selected to appeal to him; the first body had held no sexual attraction for Sam. Sex with it was out of the question: too many angles. But the second, the face that was stern but not unkind, and suddenly pretty when she smiled. And she’d had such warm hands. When she’d touched him he’d felt like she was scorching him.

 

He grunts, shifts position trying to get comfortable and finally resorts to beating his pillow into submission.  He ends up on his stomach, face pressed against the mattress.

 

Sam remembers those hot little hands all over his body. That biting, sucking little mouth. And her knife, oh god, her knife. That one time she gave it to him and told him that he could cut her with it as many times as he wanted to. And he’d done it too, carved Blaschko’s lines on her back, traced the lines of her metacarpals, the curves of her ribs. Finally, he’d pierced the hollow at the base of the throat and just suckled there, for hours. The sheets had been saturated with blood when they’d finished. Sam had ended up setting the bed on fire and telling the hotel manager they’d been smoking in it. Explaining the mess would have been impossible.

 

It isn’t until a little moan works its way out of his mouth that Sam realises that he’s humping the mattress. He rolls over, grabs a tissue from the nightstand, and takes care of business. But instead of feeling relaxed like he usually does, he feels even worse. Because now he’s remembering all they did, in bed and outside of it, the monster she’d turned him into. Blood lust in a way that goes far beyond the battlefield. He doesn’t _need_ the demon blood anymore, but he’ll _want_ it until the day he dies. Ruby turned him into a monster, and he’d loved every moment of the transformation.

 

He goes into the bathroom to wash up. When he comes back, Dean is still awake, watching the end of the game.

 

“Who’s winning?” Sam asks.

 

“The bad guys,” Dean says grimly. He points to the news banner that is scrolling down the base of the television screen: “ _Breaking news: twenty five dead and fifteen wounded in a co-ordinated attack on...”_

 

The game ends and goes immediately to a news castor. There are pictures of people covered in blood and wounds, wailing at the sky. Pictures of children, too.

 

Sam glares at the screen, hating the world he lives in. Sometimes he wants nothing more than to tear it down and watch it burn.

 

**

 

The scream is shrill and piercing and goes on and on. The demon’s eyes flick from human to black, black to human, over and over again. “Please,” she whimpers, “I’m begging you.”

 

The resemblance to Ruby is startling. The mouth is slightly fuller, and eyebrows less arched. Otherwise, it’s excellent.

 

“I know,” the demon whimpers, “I know that you’ve found the book. We all felt it. We’re waiting for you. You can do whatever you like. Anything you like, on Earth and in Hell. Please.”

 

Sam slaps her across the face. “You won’t fool me a second time.”

 

“Second time? What?”

 

He slaps her again, harder. “You’re not going to win this one, Ruby. I’m not going to do whatever it is that you want me to do.”

 

The demon blinks back tears. The tip of her tongue peeks out, licking at the split in her lip. “Who’s Ruby?”

 

Sam guts her like a fish.

 

Later on, after he’s finished cleaning up, he goes back to the book. He realises that not-Ruby is in there too. She’s called ‘the Surrogate.’ Sam snarls and goes to sharpen the knife again. When he rechecks the handle, he sees minute flecks of blood caught in the grip. Before he quite knows it,  he’s licked it clean, and his head is swimming, heavy with wanting more.

 

**

 

Dean is anxious, shifting from foot to foot. An eerie howl wells up from out in the dark. “Come on, Sam,” he urges, “Hurry up, hurry up!”

 

“Mmph,” Sam says around a mouthful of metal. He spits out some bobby pins while his fingers continue working the lock. “I’m going as fast as I can, Dean.”

 

“Not fast enough,” Dean snaps.

 

“I’m not the one who forgot the lock picks.”

 

Another howl. Dean flinches. Sam pretends not to notice. Under his nimble fingers he feels first one tumbler click, then another and another. The lock is opening, that’s it, he’s got it, then there’s another howl and Dean yelps in his ear.

 

“Hurry up, Sam!”

 

“I almost had it,” Sam snarls, “but you made me jump and now I have to start all over again.”

 

_“There are hellhounds out there!”_

 

“They’re not after us!”

 

Dean goes mercifully quiet. This time, Sam is able to pick the lock without interruption. Dean pushes past him, into the relative safety of the building. Sam pauses, looks over his shoulder at the hellhound that’s been patiently watching, tail curled neatly around itself. He nods a curt greeting and the hound bows low, like Sam’s a king. There’s no danger here, Sam knows that like he knows how to swim. All the same, he makes sure to shut the door securely behind him. Inside, Dean is watching him with wise, sad eyes.

 

“How do you know we’re not in danger, Sam?”

 

 _Because the Demon Bible said so,_ Sam thinks but does not say, _And even if I’d never read it, I’d still just know._ Out loud he says, “Couldn’t you hear it? The howl was moving away from us, to towards us.”

 

“Yeah, Sam,” Dean says quietly, and turns away.

 

Sam palms the front of his shirt, at the Bible he’s tucked inside. He can’t bear to be parted from it, not anymore.

 

**

 

Late at night, Sam watches the television while Dean sleeps the sleep of the injured and drugged up. Sam surfs from channel to channel, finally landing on a new bulletin. He’s watching a horror movie right there on the television screen, he sees what happened at the zoo. He watches and hates, _loathes_ the world around him. Loathes the killing and the torture and the lies and the monsters. Wishes he could tear it down and start again.

 

**

 

“I think you’ve been reading that book too much,” Dean tells Sam quietly. “You’ve withdrawn again. It’s like you’re not even there, man.”

 

“There is nothing wrong with me,” Sam says carefully, turning his urge to spit into a soft huff.

 

“Liar,” Dean says flatly. He stares at his brother without blinking. Sam stares back. “Give it to me.”

 

“Give you what?” Sam snaps.

 

“The book. Give me the book.”

 

“No.”

 

“Why not?”

 

_“Because it’s mine!”_

 

“All right,” Dean says with forced affableness, “It’s yours. You don’t have to give it to me. But how about you lend it to me?”

 

“Fuck off,” Sam growls, and stalks away.

 

**

 

In the night, Sam briefly rouses as he registers somebody in his bedroom. Before he can wake up, a cloth clamps over his nose and he’s pushed deeper into the darkness.

 

**

 

He wakes up late the next day, with a ferocious headache and a nagging absence. The book is gone. Of course it’s gone. And his body and mind is screaming, _screaming_ at him like he’s in withdrawal. He hasn’t felt this bad since he was locked in Bobby’s panic room, detoxing from the _filth_ that Ruby had put in him.

 

Frantically, Sam casts his mind back. The Bible, the Bible, had said that this would happen. Sam can quote it by heart by now. _And the Knave shall violate the body of the King, and shall steal the King’s most treasured object._ The Knave was Dean, and Dean had violated him, stolen from him. Sam throws back his head and shrieks.

 

 _“Dean!”_ He howls, tearing through the rooms.

 

 _“Dean!”_ Running down the length of the library.

 

 _“Dean!”_ Slamming through the bunker door, into the afternoon light.

 

  He smells the smoke before he sees the bonfire. Dean turns towards him, face white.

 

“It won’t burn,” he says over the crackle of the flames. “No matter what I do, it won’t burn.”

 

“Of course it won’t burn,” Sam spits, “It was written in Hell.”

 

“Of course.” Dean turns away, leaving his flank exposed. Sam pulls a knife and lunges at him. Dean raises his arm to block. That’s a mistake. Given a choice, Sam will always attack overhead, so Dean’s completely taken by surprise when Sam goes down onto one knee. The knife slides smoothly into Dean’s abdomen.

 

Sam stares into Dean’s agonised eyes. “I was happy,” he hisses, “I was happy that you were gone. I was free. Free of you, free of this life.” He yanks the knife free. Dean whimpers and falls to the ground. “You should have stayed in Purgatory, being fucked up the arse by that vampire pet of yours.” He kicks Dean, hard. “But no, you had to come back, you had to keep chasing me. _You should have left me alone!”_

 

A howl splits the air, then another, then another. The hellhounds are gathering all around.

 

“You want to be a fucking martyr to me, Dean? Then fine, _be_ my martyr.”

 

Delicately, a hellhound picks its way through the dead leaves, carrying a length of rope in its teeth. Then two more, carrying long, heavy straight branches, with absolutely no effort at all. And then there’s the hammer, and the nails. The hellhound spits those out at Sam’s feet with a grunt like a laugh.

 

Sam takes his time putting the cross together. All the while, Dean writhes and moans. He screams once, piercingly, as a hellhound bites off his thumb when he tries to scrabble away from Sam. By the time Sam drags him onto the cross and hammers his wrists and feet to the wood, he’s lost so much blood he can’t even struggle. Sam throws the rope over a tree branch. A hellhound grabs the other end of the rope and pulls backwards. The cross is raised into the air.

 

The skin in the corners of Sam’s mouth split and bleed as he smiles.

 

“Your Majesty,” Crowley’s gravelly voice comes from behind him. Sam doesn’t turn around. He feels the weight of the torque, the coldness, the heat as it comes around his neck.

 

The King ascends the throne.

 

**END**


End file.
